


Future Conditional

by impasto



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-10-19
Updated: 2003-10-19
Packaged: 2017-10-03 06:30:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impasto/pseuds/impasto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Billy was never very good at writing letters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Future Conditional

Billy was never very good at writing letters. He had, on occasion and with varying degrees of regularity (to your grandmother at Christmas, _thank you for the lovely gifts_, scrawled hastily at the kitchen table before you were allowed to play with your new toys, and to your girlfriend in third grade who moved one town away, which may as well have been across the ocean when your only mode of transportation was your new two-wheeler), and though it had been a while since he'd put pen to paper, he had a grasp of the basic concept. He might not be an expert, but Billy knew what letters were supposed to look like.  
  


 

And this didn't fit. A postcard with an image of a blurry park garden (Impressionist, you registered, but that was the extent of your knowledge of art history. Shouldn't all those painters just try on a pair of glasses?), springtime in the city. On the reverse, in tiny defined print: _Monet - Parc Monceau, Paris_. Billy's address. An LA postmark. And a date. _December 15, 2000_.  
  


 

Billy was never very good at remembering dates. He knew if there was a day he needed to be somewhere (birthdays, yeah, marked with a big red circle on your calendar and input on your laptop just in case so the pleasant ding reminds you to pick up a card and drop it in the post, or pick up the phone and give your old drama school chum a ring), and his sister wouldn't let him forget Robbie Burns Day. Was he supposed to remember this day? Maybe he was getting forgetful in his old age. But the scrawled words were Viggo's, and Viggo was older than him. Maybe Viggo was going senile.  
  


 

But one postcard shouldn't be enough to condemn a man. Certainly not. Seven or eight, though, in a matter of days (a cobalt sky broken by golden fireworks and merry party guests: _Dali - Fiesta in Figueres. February 10, 2000_. A bowl of fruit on a table, balanced by a lemon slice: _Renoir - Strawberries. July 9, 2001_. A house and trees shaded with yellows and greens: _Cezanne - Maison et Arbres. October 19, 1999_) made Billy's brow furrow. A new wrinkle appeared on his temple.  
  


 

They showed up everywhere. His mailbox, Maggie's kitchen table (_call him_, she tells you. Brilliant, never though of that before. And say what, _you off your rocker mate?_, knowing you'll never get a straight answer from him; he'll just smile and you'll feel it over the phone and listen to his breathing as he waits for you to figure it out, like it's child's play), even at the theatre box office where he'd been rehearsing for the past few weeks.  
  


 

Billy was never very good at solving riddles. He tried to piece things together; thematically, chronologically, geographically. Viggo was all over the map. And there was a hitch, in the form of a gaudy tourist image of Los Angeles. _Santa Monica Pier. January 23, 2003_ (what happened in California last week, and why were you supposed to know about it?). Next, slightly more familiar ground with an aerial shot of Glasgow. _Glasgow, Scotland_ (in case you weren't sure, but this is about the only thing you're sure about now, thank you very much). _January 24, 2003_.  
  


 

Finally, a stark postcard with a question mark, dark and solid and bold. _October 14, 2004_.  
  


 

It made no sense, and perfect sense.  
  


 

Billy remembered, maybe not dates and obscure paintings, but he remembered (walking through the park in Wellington, still trying to reconcile the words 'December' and 'sunshine' as you tugged Viggo, laughing, towards a café because even Aragorn needs a latte once in a while; shooting Bilbo's birthday scene with Dom and seeing Viggo offside, motionless, until you set off fireworks that weren't supposed to go off and suddenly his eyes crinkled and his lips quirked and Peter called _cut_; licking strawberry juice from Viggo's wrist, feeling his pulse hammer under your tongue, teeth nipping and eliciting a growl before gravity disappeared and you found yourself staring at the ceiling, closing your eyes and _feeling_; helping the Fellowship prepare a housewarming for Stuart's replacement, sorting dishes-food-bedclothes, rewarded by an exhausted grin when Viggo opened his door and you knew, _he fit_) everything. These memories weren't blurry like Impressionist prints, they were sharp and vivid. Brittle.  
  


 

Billy turned the postcard in his hands. He'd solved the puzzle, but there weren't any answers.


End file.
